The 54th Hunger Games: Little Lion
by Naerin
Summary: When fifteen year old Leo is chosen as District Nine's tribute for the Hunger Games, he knows that he is going to die. There's no way a weakling like him will survive for long. But he made a promise, and he intends to keep it, no matter what. Warnings: Violence, possibly Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Farm

I guess skipping stones across a creek bed isn't the most useful thing I could be doing with my time. However, it does have a certain calming effect. Picking up a large, flat stone I send it flying across the water. It bounds over the rippling surface a few times before thudding against a tree. Said tree is an ancient, gnarled thing. It's been my favourite rock throwing target for years now, as evidenced by the numerous dents and broken branches. Sometimes I almost feel sorry for it. My aim has steadily improved and it's been getting a battering from all the chunks of rock I've hit it with.

I switch things up, too. On occasion, I will use the slingshot I made for killing field mice to hurl the stones at the unfortunate old thing. Usually I only do that when I would really rather be hurling stones at someone rather than something. A Peacekeeper, or pompous Capitolite, for example.

This creek is my sacred place. The only place where I can truly forget about everything in the outside world, even if only for a few hours. No one ever comes down to this secluded little spot, except me.

Letting my eyes wander, I try my best to ignore the fact that I should have been home a good hour ago, instead choosing to spend a little while longer – even though I know that my family will be worrying about me. A trout comes bubbling to the surface. I watch it with vague interest. It stares right back at me, not afraid in the slightest. The Capitol made fishing outside of District Four illegal decades ago. It has made the fish around here grow bold. They are very beautiful, though. They're a part of what makes this place so special to me. The trout and the other fish are my friends.

Living on a farm all my life, I never really got a chance to meet other children. All of our neighbours are much older. As such, my only real companions have been the fish and the draught horses. The biggest draught horse, Pickle, is a cranky old mare. She would as soon bite your hand off as let you near her. The others aren't so bad, but Pickle is especially fun to taunt. I find endless amusement in trying to sneak up on her and give her a fright.

My parents are not amused by that particular game in the slightest, constantly telling me that one day I will get kicked, or even killed. They think I'm a nuisance, most of the time, and usually give me all the pointless jobs on the farm. Feeding the horses, weeding fields or killing mice to stop them eating the grain.

Really, I have no right to complain. I know my lot is a much better deal than that given to those from some of the outer districts. There, the people have even less than we do. We at the least have a roof over our heads, and a meagre portion of the crops we grow to keep our own table stocked. I know that we should be grateful, but it is hard.

Sighing, I pick myself up off the edge of the creek bed. The sun is starting to sink below the horizon, and I should really get home. Both sides of the creek are covered with seemingly endless fields of grain. Wheat, oats, rye. You name it, it's growing out there. Hidden by the tall grain stalks a few kilometres away is my house. It's not much. Barely enough to fit my parents, my baby sister and myself. Still – it's home.

The last few weeks have been hell. Our shipment of grain has been behind schedule, and my parents have been working double shifts. I feel a small twinge of guilt. I should be helping, but I escaped this afternoon to spend some time at my creek.

I have a good reason, though. Tomorrow will be my third reaping for the annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games are a yearly event in Panem. One boy and one girl from each of the twelve districts is sent to the Capitol as a tribute. Of those twenty-four children, only one will get to go home again. The other twenty-three will die violent deaths within a Capitol engineered arena, at each others hands. The one who kills the most and somehow survives the horror is crowned as the victor, and paraded through the districts to keep the rest of us subservient. The reaping is the part of the games during which the tributes for this atrocity are selected. All the children between twelve and eighteen in each district will have one chance per reaping they have been through of being selected.

Of course, you can also take tesserae. A tesserae puts another slip in the giant glass jar with your name on it. However, it also provides you or a loved one with a years supply of food from the Capitol.

This year I'm fourteen, and three of the slips in that giant glass jar will be for me. The very thought gives me the chills. At least I haven't had to take tesserae, like so many other children in the district are sure to have done. Not that I'm overly comforted by that fact. There are still three chances out of however many that tomorrow, I will be sent to die.

I guess there's no point in agonising over it. It's not like I have any influence on the vagaries of chance. Shrugging mentally, I brush dirt off my clothes before turning towards the massive field of wheat which lies behind me. It's exactly like so many others here in district nine – a vast expanse of tall swaying stalks. I lose myself in it, feeling completely in my element. If there was one thing I did know, it was how to find my way through a field. Not much to boast about, I guess. Still – it was something.

Ever since I could walk, I have been out in the fields – running, playing, working. The gentle march of the seasons and the endless fields of grain are my whole life. Our small farm and the hills surrounding it mark the borders of my world.

To be perfectly honest, I almost wish the world did stop at those imaginary lines. That all things outside of them couldn't influence my life, or the lives of my family. Alas, it is not so. Peacekeeper visits aren't exactly common out here. The Peacekeepers have a whole lot of farms to patrol, so visiting just one is usually somewhat out of the way. Said visits aren't rare enough to let us forget just who holds the reins of power in Panem, though. The Capitols reach is all encompassing, even out here in the middle of nowhere.

After about twenty minutes of weaving my way through fields of wheat, I finally find my way to the farmhouse. An ancient Tudor styled building, it looks impressive in the way that an old worn down warrior does. Like, once upon a time, it was something. I mean, if we could afford to get the leaky roof fixed and replace the handful of broken windows, it would be a lot better. As it is, it just looks dilapidated. Shrugging mentally, I nudge the back door open and make my way into the kitchen.

My mud-soaked lace-up boots find their way into the pile by the door, and my jacket takes it place on the coat rack. Mum would kill me if I trailed mud all through the house. It's not worth my life, so I make sure to leave things where they belong.

It's only my parents, myself and my baby sister living here. My grandmother had died last winter. Life expectancy in the districts is one of those numbers we don't get to see, but I imagine it's pretty terrible. If only we had had medicine, doctors, hospitals. Chances are that she need not have died. Except that we live under a Capitol who sees such things as frivolous. A waste of it's money.

Like many others, I really hate the Capitol. The people who live there, the rules they force on the rest of us. Even the buildings themselves. I think we would be a whole lot better off without them.

I can hear my mum in the next room. She's crying. I know why, too. Five years ago, my cousin lost her life in the Hunger Games. With the reaping tomorrow, I can only imagine her thoughts. That I will be picked. That this time she will lose her own child.

Sometimes, I think it terrifies her more than it terrifies me. Which really is saying something. I'm the one who has to face the prospect of potentially being chosen to die for the amusement of the Capitol in some perverted gladiatorial match. Even if it was a very tiny chance.

The year my cousin had been chosen, my mother forbade me to watch the games.

We were technically required to watch them, to not do so was a punishable offence. That said, out here in District Nine it was a very hard thing to keep track of. With so many farms that required constant tending, the Peacekeepers could hardly keep track of all of us for the several weeks that the games often took. If they did find out though, the punishments were often severe.

Even with the risk that the Peacekeepers would find out, she hadn't wanted me to see my cousin Hannah die. We all knew that she would. District Nine was one of the worst performing districts in Panem in the Games, with only District Twelve having less victors than our measly two. Personally though, I think she was more worried that I would see what my cousin was forced to do. Hannah had placed third that year. She hadn't made it that far in the games with clean hands and a clean conscience, I can assure you.

I found out later that she had been killed by the male career tribute from District Four. They had shot her down with a bow, then left her to bleed to death. The thought makes my shudder even now. I'm glad I never had to see it.

Careful to make as much noise as possible, I make my way into the kitchen. It's fairly small, though the homely smells and bushels of fresh vegetables hanging from the ceiling make it feel alive. My mother looks up, wiping away the tears and trying to look as though she hadn't just been crying. I don't comment on it. At the end of the day, it's kinder to her to pretend that she was fine.

My mum is fairly plain looking, though to me she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Her brown hair has streaks of grey through it, and her face is wrinkled from years of hardship. It's her eyes that really stand out. The grey colour looks anything but dead. It looks more like tiny slivers of silver, shining out for the world to see.

My dad tells me that I have the same eyes as her, though I don't believe it. The sheer strength of life that you can see in her eyes is almost scary.

She is currently wearing an old homespun dress, stained from hours in the kitchen and out in the fields. Similar at least in make to my own breeches and shirt.

"Leo, where have you been," she questions, her tone scolding, "I was expecting you home hours ago. Your father was looking for you high and low."

I look away guiltily. It's not my fault that they failed to look in the one place they knew I would be.

"I was at the creek, Mum... Like usual. Where did you expect I was?"

The brief expression of worry was not lost on Leo. "Oh, never mind. Go and play with your sister, she has been asking for you."

I nod, before heading towards the stairs. I have no idea what my parents had been thinking when they named me. Other than my mane of completely unruly tawny-blonde hair, I was nothing like my namesake. A lion was supposed to be fierce and strong, where I was small and weak. There had only been one time that I'd seen a real lion, and it had been terrifying. The big cats usually stuck to the wilds and kept away from our farm, though sometimes they got hungry.

My sister is four years old. She thinks it's hilarious pulling on my hair and calling me kitty cat. I don't mind though. I love her to bits. I would do anything for Sandy, and she knows it. That's why when she jumps on me the minute I go into her room, I just smile and allow it.

"Kitty! Mummy says you have to go away tomorrow, and that you might not come back," Sandy says, the panic evident in her voice.

I smile reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll come back. No matter what."

Relief floods Sandy's face. She had obviously been worrying about this all day, if the way she was clinging to me right now was any indication. The little girl had probably thought that I wouldn't want to come back. That for some reason, I didn't love her. The chances of being picked tomorrow are tiny, so I don't feel bad that I might be lying to her.

Even I know that I wouldn't stand a chance in the Hunger Games.

Later that night while I'm trying to get to sleep, sick with worry about the impending reaping, that promise keeps me awake. No matter what happens tomorrow, I will come back. I gave my word.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Reaping Day

I don't know which is worse. The five hour long journey to reach the justice building, here in District Nine, or the way we are all herded into a big square like so many cattle once we arrive.

At least my farm is relatively close. I know some of the other wide eyed children who surround me here would have had to travel even further than I did. District Nine is huge, with most of the people living scattered out on farms and properties. Some live here, in the town at the centre of it all. They are the unlucky ones, being forced to work in the giant granaries and factories that process all of the raw foods, before they are sent off to the capitol or to the other districts.

The factory kids are easy to spot amongst the crowd. They look like they have never seen the sun, and some of them seem so malnourished that they might drop down dead at any moment. It's at times like this, that I am glad to be from a farm. I feel sorry for my fellow District Nine denizens, but under no circumstances would I want to have their lot in life.

The trip in had been nerve racking. No amount of mental preparedness, or silent assurances that my name was only on four out of however many thousands of slips of paper could quite drive away the fear. That tiny sliver of fear that it would be me sent to my death this year. Best not to think too long about it.

When we had arrived, my parents had smiled and wished me luck – saying that she had a surprise for me once the reaping was over. I think that my mother liked to try and give me something to look forwards to, after the reaping. That way I could have something else to occupy my mind for the next few hours. Something other than the chilling sense of dread that coiled in my stomach.

My finger was still sore from being jabbed violently with a needle. Part of the process to ensure everyone who should be here, was here, was a compulsory blood test. The Peacekeepers were hardly gentle in their task, I can assure you.

While District Nine is not as bad off as those districts even further out than us, we are hardly one of the inner districts. We haven't had a rebellion against the capitol in my life time, but my parents well remember the last time that our fellow District Nine citizens felt the wrath of our overlords. Farms had been burnt to the ground, people rounded up and executed by the hundreds.

It had been a fairly simple revolt, too. Some of the farmers and the factory workers had tried to form a union, to negotiate for better conditions and fairer wages. The Capitolites had not liked that one little bit.

Hiding a frown, I glanced around me at my fellow fifteen year olds. I had managed to find a spot next to another boy I vaguely knew from the few trips into town that my family made each year. He was the son of one of the workers at the factory that we delivered our shipments of wheat and over food stuff to. I felt guilty, because I couldn't even remember the kids name, only his face.

I knew that he had more slips in the giant fish bowl sitting on the stage than I did. His family took tesserae, because they were poorer than ours. His name was much more likely to be called out than mine. I had to keep telling myself this.

Last year, the male tribute from our district had been a thirteen year old boy from one of the factories. He had been an emaciated little thing, and had done nothing but cry and snivel, until finally dying in the bloodbath, a week after he had been reaped. It had been terrible to watch. The kid had been only a year younger than me.

His age had not stopped the hulking brute of a tribute from District Two running him through with a spear. I hadn't touched my food for days, after that.

The boy who had killed our tribute hadn't even lasted long, in last years Hunger Games. He had been stabbed in the back by his District mate, the girl who had eventually been crowned the Victor. She had been a bloodthirsty monster.

Of course, that was to be expected. The tributes from Districts One, Two and Four were trained from a young age in the arts of murder and survival, before finally volunteering for the 'honour' of participating in the games once they turned eighteen years old. It was technically against the rules, but as the Districts doing it were the higher up districts, the capitol turned a blind eye to it all. Those brutal career tributes from the higher districts made for a good show, which in the end is all that the capitol really cares about.

Shuddering a little, I glance back up at the stage. Our escort is standing there looking slightly nervous next to the fat slug who dares to call himself our Mayor. The capitol sends one of their own to each district to select and escort the poor chosen tributes to their deaths, and remind us just who it is that holds the reins of power. District Nine's escort is an older man, who goes by the name of Horace Higglesby. Like most people from the Capitol, his sense of fashion can be described as eccentric at best. He tends to wear nothing but yellow, and even has his hair styled in the colour, pointing up in what looks like two giant ears with black tips from the top of his head. He even has a zig zaggy tail, in the same colours.

I won't even pretend to understand why.

Finally, I am interrupted from my musings by the sound of a horn, and then the tune of the Panem anthem being played. Looks like the reaping is about to start. Zoning out as much as possible, I choose instead to stare at the still nervous escort and the figures hidden behind the fat Mayor on the stage. The two silent figures are our past victors, Mattock Kingston and Cornflower Andrews.

Mattock is in his late twenties, having won the games a little over ten years ago. The man is a monster, having been a farmhand before being reaped for his games. He had won on brute strength, wielding a huge scythe to take down a crop of rather lack lustre careers, while conserving his own strength and letting his competition slowly eradicate each other. The man looked strong, but I could see how dead his eyes were. No matter how much his triumph in the games had been celebrated, I knew. I knew that walking away from those games largely unscathed had taken its toll on the giant of a man, and that the price for his victory had been whatever morals he had held.

Our other victor, Conrflower, was old enough to be my grandmother. The woman had won one of the earlier Hunger Games, before the career districts were fully established. Unlike her fellow victor her win had been more to do with cunning and betrayal than strength. Everyone had thought she was weak, a no hoper. She had proven them all wrong, allying herself with a strong group of fellow tributes, who had cleaned up the majority of the other competitors for her.

In the end, she had betrayed them all, poisoning her former allies and leaving them dead. It had come down to her, and a tiny thirteen year old from District Twelve. Cornflower had gutted him with a knife, taking home the victors crown with more blood on her hands than even Mattock.

Sometimes I wondered if the winners of the Hunger Games were just as much victims as the losers. If our two Victors were anything to go by, then the answer had to be a resounding yes.

The anthem over, and a speech about the Dark Days before the nation of Panem had come to be, and the violent revolution that had sparked the Hunger Games finished as well, the time we had all been dreading was finally here.

Squeaking slightly, Horace stepped up the mike and cleared his throat. "Well, it's that time again! Time for us to pick two brave children to represent District Nine in the Fifty Fourth Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favour!"

The bright yellow man stepped towards one of the giant glass bowls. "Ladies first, of course."

Reaching into the bowl, he lucked out a slip of paper, before opening it and reading out the name written across it.

"Congratulations, Clay Matheson!" he cried out, his high pitched voice sounding excited, as though picking a girl to go to her death was a some kind of an honour, rather than a tragedy waiting to happen.

Glancing towards the girls, I noticed a huge girl from the eighteen year olds section push her way out and walk up towards the stage. Her face was plastered with an evil look, as though she wanted nothing more than to strangle the little man who had dared to call her name. I gulped, feeling almost sorry for our escort.

It looked like District Nine had a contender this year. This brute of a girl looked as mean as some of the career tributes from previous years. Her hair was cropped short, and from the bulging muscles on her arms and the deep tan she sported, it was obvious she was a farmhand. Heck, she looked as mean as Mattock had when he was reaped, all those years ago. I felt sorry for whoever was sent to the arena with her, she didn't seem like the type who would be inclined to help the poor kid who was going to be sent to die with her.

Horace obviously had noticed the death glares she had been sending him, because he was quick to leave her alone and head over to the bowl containing all of the boy's names. Without ceremony, and still glancing warily at the brute who now shared the stage with him, the bright yellow escort cleared his throat once more, before calling out the name on the piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand.

"Leo Saunders, please come up to the stage."

I stared at him. This had to be a mistake, right? There was no way that it had been my name he had just called out. Not a chance. I felt the boy next to me, the one I knew, staring at me with a sympathetic look in his eyes. The sympathy was mixed with relief. No doubt he was glad that it wouldn't be him heading to his death this year.

The boy gave me a gentle shove. "Go on mate, you have to go up or they'll come over here and drag you there."

Nodding, I slowly made my way towards the stage – feeling thousands of pairs of eyes scrutinising me. I was still in shock, my face no doubt completely expressionless as my feet carried me towards my death. A group of Peacekeepers quickly surrounded me. No doubt to dissuade me of any ideas I might have had of running.

Reaching the stage, I stared out blankly at the sea of faces. They stared back. Most looked back at me with sympathy. It was a hollow. They might feel sorry for me, but not a one would take my place here on this stage, I knew.

Horace coughed again, before forcing me to shake hands with the menacing girl standing next to me. She stared down at me, like she might a bug, before crushing my hand in hers with a painful grasp. I winced.

Obviously I had been right, when I had guessed that there would be no love lost between this girl and whatever unfortunate tribute she was paired with.

"District Nine, I give you your tributes!" Horace cried out, his enthusiasm temporarily overtaking his nervousness, "Clay Matheson and Leo Saunders, congratulations on being chosen for the honour of representing your district in the Fifty Fourth Hunger Games!"

The cameras flashed, and there was a brief smattering of forced applause. I could hear a woman screaming from the back of the crowd, her sobs audible even from here. That was probably my mum. I felt tears prickling at my eyes, but I forced them back. I was on display, and I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not ever.

If I did, I was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Tokens and Farewells

The last thirty minutes or so were little more than I blur. I vaguely remember being dragged down into the Justice Building by Peacekeepers, and avoiding a good dozen or so cameras wielded by Capitolites that were pointed in my direction. The Peacekeepers had been a bit more... gentle... with my fellow competitor, though probably more from fear of having their head ripped off than anything. She really was a monster, and her glare seemed to be for everyone, not just for me.

I felt sort of sorry for her, in a way. Clay was eighteen, and if she had managed to avoid being chosen for the games today, she would have been able to wash her hands of the whole affair, and move on with her life. It was understandable that she was so pissed off at everyone and anyone who came within a ten foot radius of her.

Once we had been ushered away from the cameras and the crowds, the Peacekeepers had shoved the giant girl into a room, before promptly doing the same with me. I distinctly heard the lock click on the door. They were definitely not going to be taking any chances with me escaping from my fate. It would probably cost them their lives, if they were to let a tribute escape. My fate had been sealed the moment my name was pulled from the glass jar, ten minutes ago.

The room was one of the fanciest I had ever been in. Everything was so elegant that I was afraid to touch anything, for fear of getting in trouble. A small platter of food was laid out on a table in front of me, what looked like a roasted pheasant and some of the most exquisite vegetables that District Nine had to offer. I just stared at it, my mind blank.

I was anything but hungry.

It was sort of disconcerting, realising that I would likely be dead in under a week. I mad no skills, no hope. The brutal careers, or even my own violent looking district partner, would tear my life from me with their own hands if given half a chance. I shuddered, the truth finally hitting me.

I was dead. First, they would parade me around like some kind of animal, then send me to my death. Letting my green eyes shut, I bit back the tears and screams that wanted to come loose. It wasn't fair. I had never done anything to deserve this, never taken tesserae, or done anything to the Capitol. Yet, I was slated to die for their amusement in some arena designed by some sick-minded freak in less than week. There was no logic, no reason. Simply the luck of the draw.

As the saying went. May the odds be ever in your favour. I felt bile rising up in the back of my throat, the pounding my my head making me feel dizzy. Letting myself collapse to the floor, I took in a few sharp breaths.

I had to be strong. If I let my weakness show, then I would be giving them what they wanted. My fear. My death.

There was no way I was just going to take my inevitable death at the hands of some sick, twisted tribute from one of the career districts lying down. Not a chance in hell. My family had raised me to be tough er than this, to always look for the positives in any situation and use them to my advantage.

Calming down, I let my brain slowly start working again. I was fast. Agile. Reasonably fit and with a toned physique from years of hard labour, if not a bulky giant. While I wasn't exactly a skilled fighter, I was deadly accurate with that slingshot I spent so much time practicing with. If the other tributes wanted me dead, they would have to catch me first. I had no intentions of being an easy mark.

To top that off, I was also pretty handy with a sickle, or a big double handed scythe at a stretch. Even a pitchfork wouldn't be beyond me, if I could get my hands on one. Spending years helping my parents out with the harvest had given me a pretty thorough grasp of how to handle the more rudimentary farming implements that we used. Even if I had little idea of how to use them as weapons, I'm sure that with a bit of practice even the most simple of tools could be turned to weapons in order to defend myself.

There. Things weren't so hopeless as they had seemed, a few minutes ago.

I was startled out of my reverie by a loud click, and the sound of the door swinging open, followed the harsh voice of a Peacekeeper. Oh, right. The families of the tributes were allowed to visit them before they were sent off to their deaths. I had almost entirely forgotten about that, in my mental battle to keep from collapsing in defeat before the Games had even started.

My mother was ushered in, clutching my baby sister to her chest. My father followed close behind. Both of their faces were streaked red with tears, and little Sandy looked more confused, than anything. She obviously didn't understand what was happening, only that my parents were upset and that her brother had been taken away by the big scary Peacekeepers.

I almost envied her for her innocence. Putting on a big, fake smile, I tried my best to keep the fear from clouding my eyes. If only for my baby sisters benefit.

"Hey mum, hey dad," I said, keeping my voice controlled, calm, "Good to see you. I didn't think they would let you come."

Mum had been hysterical. It was a valid concern. The peacekeepers could have just as easily refused my family entry, ans allow them in to see me. They would have been justified in doing so.

"We had to come," My father said, eying me with sorrow in his eyes, "I wanted to tell you that we're proud of you, Leo. That no matter what happens, you must always remember that."

I glanced to the floor, trying not to let the doubt creep into my expression. It sounded as though my dad had already written me off as dead. He wasn't far wrong in doing so, but it was still a hard pill to swallow.

"Thanks Dad. I'll remember," I say, putting on a brave face for their benefit.

Mum let out a cry, before rushing to me and embracing me in her arms, sobbing again.

"I don't want them to take you away," she cried, clutching me tightly to her chest, "they can't take away my baby. My little lion."

I pulled away from her, embarrassed. It was already hard enough, having to go to the Hunger Games, but seeming my mother break down like this was not helping at all. It would be hard to remain strong, when I remember her tear stained face and the way she couldn't let me go.

Glancing at my baby sister, I saw the questioning in her eyes. Crouching down to her level, I smiled and pulled her into my arms. 'I love you Sandy," I say, meaning every word, "I promised you I would come home tomorrow, didn't I?" I say, staring into her wide eyes, "I'll keep that promise. I have to go away for a while, though. You have to stay strong and look after mum and dad for me, alright?"

She nodded, pulling me into her arms again. "I'll help mum be happy, Kitty," she said, still not understanding why I had to go away.

My dad coughed, drawing my attention to him. The old man glanced me up and down, as if evaluating. "Son. I taught you to use a sickle. You know about every plant under the sun and how to find your way home and read the sun and the stars. You'll come home, I'm sure of it."

Suddenly, he pushed a small object into the palm of my hand. "Take this as a token, he whispered, so only he and I could hear his words, "If anything will protect you and remind you of who you are, this is it."

The doors slammed open again, and the Peacekeepers surged in, dragging my dad and my screaming mum away, my little sister following them in confusion. I choked back a sob of my own. I was never going to see my family again.

Realising I still had the token my dad had thrust at me clasped in my hand, I uncurled my fingers and glanced at it. It was a miniature wooden lion, attached to the end of a leather necklace. I couldn't hold back the smile that quickly overtook my face, feeling a warm surge of gratitude and a tiny sliver of hope rush through me. He had been right, if anything was going to remind me of who I was, then this was it. I was a lion – and a lion was braver than this.

Putting the necklace around my neck, I calmly went to the table and started eating the food that had been laid out, mechanically. I was far from calm, but the motions of eating might help me to put my parents out of my mind and start focusing on what was to come, what plans and strategies I would need to use.

The Hunger Games started now. I couldn't afford to relax even one little bit, if I wanted to get out of this alive. Everything I did, everything I said. The people I talked to, the victors who would mentor me. Even my murderous looking district mate. I needed these people to be on my side, if I intended to walk away from that arena unscathed.

It was unlikely I would be able to get to Clay, but maybe with some work I could convince her that murdering me from the start wouldn't be in her best interests. That timid little escort of ours though, and even the past victors, would be a lot easier to sway to my side. I sat thinking, calmly plotting how I would get those allies I needed in order to protect myself.

Once in the actual arena, friends on the outside could prove invaluable. The rich Capitol denizens could act as sponsors and send you life saving gifts, things that would help you to live that little bit longer and give you that tiny advantage against the other tributes. I needed to earn sponsors, and the best people to get them for me were none other than District Nine's past victors, and that little yellow freak Horace.

Raising my head up high, contemplatively, I waited for the Peacekeepers to come and fetch me away. I was anything but calm. I was terrified. But I was determined.

When they did come for me, I went with them with my head held high and a forced smile plastered across my face. They had fetched my district mate as well, and the girl glared suspiciously at me. No doubt she thought I was an idiot, grinning as they lead me to my death. But it was a necessary act. I needed to make those sick bastards in the Capitol like me. Like me just enough to want to save me.

We were lead out of the justice building, and back into the eyes of the dozens of cameras and screaming journalists. I smiled at them, even giving a small wave and a bow. They lapped it right up.

The Peacekeeper leading me frowned, before grabbing me by the scruff of my neck and throwing me bodily into a waiting car. He was obviously not amused by my antics.

I didn't try to speak with Clay in the short car ride, and she did much the same. Obviously there was not going to be some miraculous friendship to sprout between us. We both knew the harsh reality. Only one of us could emerge from this debacle alive. Getting attached would only make it more painful later, so it was better to keep our distance from each other.

Even so, I thought, eyeing her contemplatively. I needed to use my proximity to this girl to convince her not to kill me. There were going to be twenty three other tributes in that arena. Having one of them not gunning for me wouldn't hurt my chances.

When the car skidded to a halt outside the train station, I stared in wonder at the shining contraption which stood awaiting us. The Capitol obviously took no half measures when it went to bringing in their chosen tributes. The train was a marvel of technology, gleaming silver and inviting.

Climbing out of the car and following the blabbering form of our escort Horace up into the silver monstrosity of a train, I couldn't help but smirk. It seemed that the last days of our lives would be spent experiencing nothing short of the best the Capitol had to offer.


End file.
